


Sterek Tumblr Pieces

by jezziejay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ficlets, Fluff, M/M, Quick Writes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Full of Grace (or the baby fic)

The baby has a crib, and stroller, a changing mat, a bouncy chair, a plastic tub, a car-seat, and an Everest sized mountain of soft blankets in neutral beiges and cheerful yellows, and now soft pinks. She even has more diapers and clothes than Derek imagines she’ll ever use, all sorted in chronological age bands – 0-3 months, 3-6 months, 6-9, and 9-12. Things will get a little more vague when she turns a year old, when apparently babies start to grow in six month spurts.

The baby has a second name. Hale. They decided on that before she was even an itch in Stiles’ pants. Stiles’ DNA and Derek’s name. Fair being fair. Fifty-fifty.

“Although, I’m kinda putting in most of the leg work here, big guy,” Stiles had complained.

Derek slipped his mouth off of Stiles’ cock and stared up at him in disbelief. “Really,” he rasped. “I’m on my knees, on a clinic floor, sucking you off while juggling with this impossibly small sample jar, and _you’re_ the one putting in the leg work?”

Stiles blinked at him blearily. “Wow, what a lovely story we’ll have to tell our child about its conception.”

“Our child will never know _anything_ about its conception,” Derek shuddered. “No child should ever know anything about its conception.”

“Shut up before I lose my boner,” Stiles grumbled.

“You shut up before I break your boner,” Derek returned.

But right before Stiles came, he reached out a hand, and somehow their wedding rings clanged together. That seemed oddly...sweet.

Still not sharing any of that with the kid, though.

 

What their baby doesn’t have is a first name.

 

Stiles didn’t want to know the gender, and Derek didn’t much need to find out. He knew they were having a boy. It made sense. He’d been a boy himself. He’d know what to do with a boy. 

What he didn’t know what to do with was how his legs went weak every time he looked at his tiny daughter, still a long way from fitting into her zero to three months autumn collection, how his heart felt so wild and swollen that he thought it would break out of his chest and make a run for it.

Turned out, Derek knew shit about shit.

“What are you doing?” Stiles whispers, crossing the floor, still damp from his shower.

“Watching her breathe,” Derek answers softly, eyes still trained on the rapid rise and fall of the baby’s chest. 

“And how’s that going?” 

“She’s pretty good at it,” Derek says proudly. He’s still going to keep watching, just to be sure.

“A natural,” Stiles agrees, running a gentle hand through Derek’s hair. “Want a sandwich?”

Derek shakes his head without glancing away from the baby, and listens as Stiles bustles around the kitchen. Cupboards and drawers and the fridge opening with less noise these days. Having a baby is what it took it took to make Stiles sympathetic to sensitive ears.

She looks like Stiles, Derek thinks. Her nose has a little upturn and her mouth is bow-shaped. When open, her eyes are blue, but Derek’s sure they’re going to darken.

He’s read that newborns resemble their fathers. It’s some biological imperative, helps with bonding. It could be true, he supposes. It just doesn’t matter much. Derek loved her long before he ever saw her. 

Although it doesn’t hurt that he sees Stiles in the way she scrunches up her face or jerks suddenly in her sleep. Derek suspects that he’s biologically predisposed to adore anything that reminds him of Stiles.

“She should be hungry soon,” Stiles says, padding back across the floor and settling down beside Derek. He smells of gentle soap and whatever greens he’s been snacking on while making his sandwich.

“We’ll know when she is,” Derek says wisely. Those are Melissa’s words coming out of his mouth. She had said them many times, even shouted them one morning at five am, like she couldn’t fathom why Derek and Stiles were calling her to panic about their baby sleeping through her 4:45 feed. Derek thought that was a bit of an overreaction on Melissa’s part. It had been at least four hours since they’d last called her.

“She needs a name,” Stiles says, cheeks stuffed with bread. Even his chewing is more considerate these days.

Derek sighs. He really doesn’t want another argument about this right now. He just wants to sit here with his husband while they watch their daughter like she’s the best show on TV.

“Shania,” Stiles continues.

“Thanks. Now that song is giving me earworm.”

“Which one?”

“Men’s shirts, short skirts, _wu-huh-huh-ho_?”

Stiles snorts, his shoulder knocking against Derek’s. “So what have you got?”

“Regan,” Derek suggests hopefully.

“Nope. Nope to Regan, and her sisters, Cordelia and Gonorrhoea.”

“Goneril, philistine,” Derek scoffs.

“Nope to that, too.” Stiles sucks some tomato from his fingers and leans over to pick up the baby. “Who is it that can tell me who I am,” he says obnoxiously. “How’s that for philistine?”

Derek’s reluctant smile grows into something much more helpless when Stiles smushes his nose against the baby’s cheek. “But seriously, angel,” Stiles whispers to her. “You really do need to tell us who you are.”

 

“Has she still not got a name?” the sheriff says disapprovingly. Derek side nods at Stiles so that John knows where the blame lies for that one. It’s not Derek that’s being unreasonable here. And he’s pretty sure John doesn’t want his granddaughter named Beyoncé, regardless of how fierce she is. He walks towards the sink, smirking when John moves away, like he’s afraid Derek wants the baby. Derek _always_ wants the baby, but right now, he just wants to rinse his mug.

“Your dads are the worst,” John coos adoringly down at the bundle in his arms. “By the time they choose a name for you, you’ll be old enough to pick your own.”

“She’s nine days old, Dad,” Stiles says, lifting his bowl of cereal to drain the last of the milk.

“That’s nine days in this world without a name,” John says, his tone still gentle, his eyes still on the baby. “If you don’t pick something soon, I’ll name her.”

“No,” Stiles says insistently. “Remember what happened the last time you were allowed to name a baby?” He jerks two thumbs at himself. “Stiles Stilinski, that’s what happened.”

“Mary,” John continues, ignoring Stiles. “I think I’ll call you Mary.”

“You will not,” Stiles splutters.

“You really won’t,” Derek adds.

“Then you’d better come up with something else, quickly.”

 

Sleep when the baby does, the lady in the paediatrician’s waiting room advises. Don’t worry about the housework or the laundry or having people over. It’s hard to hear her over the squalling of whatever’s in the blue blanket she’s holding. It smells human, but it sounds like something that’s been dragged up from the dregs of hell.

“Even if it’s for only twenty minutes,” the mom continues. “I don’t think I’d be alive if it wasn’t for those precious twenty minutes.”

Derek doesn’t always sleep when his baby does, because he’d be sleeping eighteen hours a day, but he makes the wise decision to keep that to himself. It might sound like he’s gloating, and much as he loves to boast about the tiny seven pounds in his arms, he has a feeling this lady wouldn’t much appreciate it. She’s more than a little frayed around the edges. Her hair probably had a style a couple of months ago, the roots are brown, the rest a vivid red. It matches her eyes. She smells, too. And one of her boobs is hanging out.

She’s probably going to get a repetitive strain injury if she doesn’t stop that incessant jiggling. “Not that we have many people over anymore,” she says. “I mean, they drop by and then they leave.”

Derek would like to leave, too.

“My mother even went home after three days.”

Derek murmurs sympathetically.

“And sex,” the mom giggles, borderline hysterical. “Like, what’s that, right?”

“No idea,” Derek says with a sad shake of his head. That’s a lie. Derek had sex this morning. And last night. He and Stiles haven’t fucked this much since their honeymoon. Something to do with endorphins and bonding and seeing each other as providers and nurturers, or some shit like that. All Derek knows is that he wants to bang Stiles like the proverbial screen door every time he sees Stiles being adorable with their kid. 

He also keeps that to himself.

“Your baby is very quiet,” the mom says, her tone suddenly turning accusatory.

“Oh,” Derek says, cradling the baby protectively as the mom tries to peer down at her. “No, god, no. She cries all the time. She’s normally a real pain in the ass.”

The mom looks at him dubiously, but the doctor calls her in before she can say anything else. 

Derek gathers his daughter closer. “I’m so sorry that I said that,” he whispers guiltily. “I didn’t mean it. You know that I -”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, appearing suddenly. “Parking is a bitch around -” He stops and looks in horror at the door of the examining room. “What the fuck is making that noise?”

“You should have been here for the hi-def experience,” Derek says. “Stiles, I think our daughter has narcolepsy.”

 

Their daughter doesn’t have narcolepsy. There’s also no reason to believe that there’s anything wrong with her hearing. 

“She’s an easy baby,” the paediatrician says. “Appreciate it. Enjoy it. It might not last.”

Derek watches Stiles’ lips twist in uncertainty. “Are we feeding her enough? Maybe she needs -”

The doctor cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “She’s perfectly healthy. She doesn’t need anything you’re not already giving her. Although a name wouldn’t go amiss.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Did my dad call you?”

 

“Genevieve,” he says later that night, both of them lounging on the bed, the baby sleeping in the space between them.

“I like it,” Derek nods. “But…Gen, and, you know, _Jennifer_.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says, making a face.

“Abigail,” Derek suggests.

“Went to elementary school with an Abigail,” Stiles muses, his fingers running gently over the baby’s tiny ear shell. “She always had skinned knees and elbows. We called her Scabby Abby.”

“Jesus,” Derek says, wincing.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Kids are so cruel.” 

Derek eyes him. “You came up with that name, didn’t you?”

Stiles looks away shiftily. “Hayley.”

“Hayley Hale? What was it you said about alliteration?”

“To be avoided at all costs,” Stiles says firmly.

They had agreed that she wouldn’t be named for any dead people. No Claudia or Talia or Laura or Erica or Allison. They hadn’t wanted their daughter to start life under the weight of someone else’s memory. She’d have a name that would grow with her, not one she would have grow into.

“Miley,” Stiles tries, and Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fleur,” he counters.

“Fleur Delacour,” Stiles says, his cheek twitching. “Jada?”

“Jada the Hutt?”

Stiles stares at him. “You disappoint me on so many levels,” he says flatly. “ _Jabba_ the Hutt.”

“You think that’s going to matter in the school yard?” Derek asks archly. “Do you really want to send our child to school with a kick me sign on her back? Huh?”

“Oh god,” Stiles says weakly, his face screwed up in anguish. “Do we have to send her to school? Derek, she’s going to meet boys like me in school!”

Derek snorts and grabs at Stiles’ flailing hand, pressing a soft kiss to the palm. “If she’s lucky.”

 

Derek answers the door to Scott and a giant pink stuffed dolphin.

“You do know that you don’t have to bring a gift every time you drop by,” Derek sighs. 

“Feels rude not to, you know?” Scott says, scrunching his nose. “I want to give Mary all the gifts.”

Derek’s hand freezes on the door. “Mary?”

“Right,” Scott nods. He wipes his feet viciously on the mat and fishes in his pocket for a small bottle of hand sanitizer. 

“Her name isn’t Mary,” Derek snaps.

“Whose name isn’t Mary?” Stiles says, appearing from the kitchen. 

“The baby’s?” Scott guesses.

“What?” Stiles says, his face clouding. “Oh my god! Is my dad telling everybody that the baby’s name is Mary?”

Scott shrugs. “It was my mom who told me.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters grimly. “I’m going to make a call. The baby’s in the kitchen. Did you sanitize?”

Scott holds up the bottle while Derek rolls his eyes. “You do know he doesn’t carry infection.”

“He might have touched something before he came in here,” Stiles insists. “It could still be on his hands.” 

Scott stares at his hands ruefully and then blinks up at Derek. “I’m not wearing the surgical mask again.”

 

Derek often takes a few minutes out of his day just to bask in it. The cozy house he lives in, the smells of basil, garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove, the Egyptian cotton beneath his head. Downstairs, Stiles is talking to the baby as he chops whatever else he’s adding to the casserole. “…just saying that it’s okay if you want to cry or whatever. It’s not a deal-breaker. You’re ours, you know? No returns or refunds. You’re pretty much stuck with us, and we’re pretty stoked about that. So, if everything is not to your satisfaction, feel free to share. Just open your mouth and howl. According to your grandpa, I was really good at that, so it should be in your genes. And we won’t mind. We’ll do whatever we can to fix it. Your other dad would pluck the moon out of the sky for you, if that’s what you wanted.” Derek can hear Stiles put the knife on the counter, can almost feel the second Stiles’ nose rubs against the baby’s cheek. “He’s a good guy, your dad. He’s loyal and brave and really _decent_ , even if he does listen in on other people’s conversations _all the time_.”

Derek beams up at the ceiling.

“Remind me to tell him that he needs to get started on the laundry. I know you’re all Mariah with not wearing the same outfit twice, but I own exactly four pairs of jeans and…”

Derek deserves everything he has. He has to, because to think otherwise would feel like a rejection of Stiles and their daughter. And Derek would sooner cut out his own heart than turn away from either of them. There’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for them, and yet all it seems he has to do is be himself.

And take care of the laundry.

 

Derek’s favourite thing about the baby changes all the time. Sometimes it’s the way her eyes cross when she’s trying to focus, sometimes it’s the huge yawns that swallow up her face, sometimes it’s the way her tiny toes separate when she flexes her feet.

But mostly it’s her fists. They’re the same size as her heart, and every time Derek thinks about that, his own swells, like it’s suddenly big enough for both of them.

“Hey,” Stiles says, rudely interrupting Derek’s adoration. “How about - ” He pauses for a dramatic sweep of his hand. “Roxana.”

Derek stares at him.

“We don’t know any Roxanas, living or dead,” Stiles continues. “Except for the wife of Alexander the Great. It’s classy but sassy, and Roxy could be pretty cool, too.” His face starts to fall when Derek looks uncertain. “You hate it,” Stiles concludes dully.

“I don’t,” Derek says, hesitant. “It’s...nice. Just a bit…chick-lit?”

“Chick-lit,” Stiles echoes.

“Yeah. You know, the heroine is Roxana Delahunt, and she works in an office by day, but secretly fights crime at night. And she’s in love with Balthazar from the tech department, who’s a vegan that volunteers at the soup kitchen. Or the dog shelter.”

Stiles’ mouth flaps. “You read chick-lit?” he manages after a minute.

Derek clears his throat. “Think I have some laundry to do.”

 

Cleo is the ideal neighbour. She doesn’t bother them much other than to trade odd jobs for delicious pies. Derek’s wondering if she needs her lawn mowing.

“No, dearie,” she croons, stepping into the hallway when he beckons her inside. “I just brought a gift for the baby.” She thrusts a package into Derek’s hands.

“Oh,” Derek says, surprised. “Stiles. _Stiles_. Cleo is here. With a present for the baby.”

Stiles appears and guides Cleo further into the house, allowing her to fawn all over the baby without sanitizing or face masks.

“She’s so beautiful. So small. Don’t you forget how small they are?” Cleo sing-songs, her wizened face scrunched up in delight. 

Derek never forgets.

“I hope you like the gift,” Cleo says pointedly, and right, maybe Derek should open it. He does so carefully, like ripping the wrap might be poor etiquette. “Oh,” he mutters. “Look, Stiles.”

He holds up the beautiful plaque that Cleo has made with the baby’s date and time of birth, and her weight – 6lbs 8oz – whittled into it. There are other carvings, of ducks and chickens and teddy bears, and a pretty pink script, spelling out…MARY.

“Wow,” Stiles chokes, his eyes a little wild. “That’s…that’s -”

“Beautiful,” Derek cuts in smoothly. “It’s very beautiful, Cleo,” he adds honestly. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing,” Cleo says, blushing at the praise.

“It’s not nothing,” Derek insists, fingering the delicate lettering. “It’s incredible, and very thoughtful. Right, Stiles?”

“Right,” Stiles nods. “Incredible. Thoughtful.”

Cleo is almost purple. “You boys,” she squeals. “I’m so glad you like it. I met your dad, Stiles, and he gave me the details.”

“That was nice of him,” Stiles manages.

Cleo can’t stay for coffee. She has to go and skype with her sister. Anyway, she knows how busy it is having newborns. Although, if Derek is free anytime soon, her lawn is looking a bit shabby. 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles cries when the door closes behind her. “I’m going to kill my dad.”

Derek decides not to tell him about the card that arrived this morning from Cora, addressed to Derek, Stiles and baby Mary.

 

“I was just passing,” the sheriff says. “And I just thought…I just…I was thinking…”

“That you might like to see your granddaughter,” Derek supplies.

“Yes,” John admits, head ducked sheepishly. He takes a couple of cautious steps into the hallway.

“You don’t need a reason. Or an excuse,” Derek says. “You’re welcome anytime.”

“Yeah,” John says. “So, I didn’t see the jeep outside.”

“It’s at the shop,” Derek sighs. “Again.”

“And is Stiles at the shop, too?” the sheriff asks hopefully.

“No, he’s not,” Stiles says from the door of the living room. “Hello… _Dad_.”

“Hi, son,” John says, his eyes growing greedy when he spies the bundle in Stiles’ arms. “I thought you might be out.”

“I bet you did,” Stiles says coolly. 

“Right. So, I just have a few minutes, and if I could just have -”

“Not so fast,” Stiles says, stepping back out of reach. “What’s the baby’s name?”

The sheriff squeezes the back of his neck. “She doesn’t have one yet,” he says mulishly.

“And why is that, Dad?”

“Because these things shouldn’t be rushed. Or hijacked. It might take a little more time for her amazing fathers to decide on the most perfect name for the most perfect baby that ever breathed air. I fully respect their decision and their right to name their own child whatever they want whenever they want,” John rattles off. 

“And?” Stiles prompts, eyebrows arched.

John looks eerily like Stiles when he’s racking his brains. “Oh, and I suck.”

“Yes, you do,” Stiles agrees, but he hands over the baby and smirks at Derek when John makes a dash for the living room.

“That was mean,” Derek chides.

“He got off lightly,” Stiles shrugs. 

It’s probably as well that Stiles can’t hear his dad softly crooning Mary Had a Little Lamb to his granddaughter.

 

It’s an absolute accident.

Derek’s changing the linen on the Moses basket when Stiles calls up – “Want to go for a walk.”

“Sure,” Derek says. “Just finished changing Mary’s shee -” He stops and freezes, is almost rigid by the time Stiles bounds up the stairs and charges into the room.

“What did you say?” he asks, his tone quiet with horror.

“Just finished changing the baby’s sheets?” Derek tries.

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head wildly. “You said, I heard you say, _Mary_.”

Derek sighs. “It’s starting to stick, Stiles. We’re going to have to come up with something soon.”

Stiles shoots him a betrayed look. “Get your coat, and I’ll get the baby.”

He sulks as they amble around the park, frowning up a fit every time Derek speaks, so Derek pushes the stroller and closes his mouth. They’re coming up on the playground when a lively toddler crosses their path, her frantic mother trying to catch up with her.

“Riley! Riley, no. Stop! _Riley!_ ” Riley giggles as her mom scoops her up and marches away, toddler firmly tossed over her shoulder. She waves a chubby fist at Derek and Derek waves back. 

“Riley’s a pretty name,” he says conversationally.

“Hmm?” Stiles murmurs, still miles away.

“I said, Riley is a pretty name.”

“Oh. Yeah. It is.”

They both stop and look hesitantly at each other. “You really like it?” Stiles demands.

“I do,” Derek nods. “It’s…strong, and I dunno, melodic?”

Stiles pulls out his phone, his fingers flying over the keys. “Valiant,” he says, eyes still on the screen. “That’s what it means.”

“Then I like it even more,” Derek decides.

“Riley,” Stiles mutters. “Riley, Riley, Riley. Riley Hale.” He slips the cell back into his pocket and smiles tentatively at Derek. “Do we have a name for our daughter, Derek?”

“Think we do,” Derek smiles back.

 

They decide to keep it to themselves just for a few more days, to get used to saying it before they hear people using it.

Stiles goes all out the first day. “Derek, can you feed Riley? Riley, are you going to wake up, sweetheart? Riley, it’s time for your bath. Derek, have you seen Riley’s unicorn?”

But by day two, he’s not using it at all, even reverting back to calling Riley _the baby_.

“You don’t like it anymore?” Derek says, sitting down on the bed beside Stiles, and pressing their arms together. Stiles shrugs, lifting Derek’s shoulder with his own.

“I love it,” he says, rueful. “I really love it. But she doesn’t. It’s just…it’s not her name.”

They both stare over at the baby sleeping peacefully in her crib, completely unaware of her dads’ angst. Or not much caring about it.

“Her name is Mary,” Stiles adds dully, and the baby twitches. “See,” he says, almost disbelievingly. “She did that the other day, when she heard you saying you were changing her sheets. She twitched. Watch. _Mary_.”

The baby jerks again, her eyes opening for a brief second before sliding closed again. Derek marvels at this new trick, has to try it out himself. “Mary.”

The baby – Mary, clearly – relaxes her scrunched up fingers and then balls them up into fists again.

“Well,” Derek says carefully. “You did ask her to tell us who she was.”

Stiles huffs out a breath, leaning heavily against Derek, squirming until Derek loops an arm around him.

“Do you hate it?”

“No.” Stiles shakes his head, his hair tickling Derek’s ear. “I just wanted something a little different for her. Something more original than Mary Hale.”

Derek presses his lips against Stiles’ temple. “You know how sometimes the second name is used before the first? Like on your driving license, or official letters.”

Stiles tips his head up. “As in, Stilinski, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Derek nods, and steals a kiss while Stiles works it out. He can feel Stiles’ smile before he can see it.

“That’s awesome, Derek,” Stiles says, pushing back to stare at Derek in wonder. “It’s fucking perfect.” 

“Hale Mary,” Derek grins.

“Full of grace,” Stiles adds.

Mary’s eyes flutter open.


	2. Take a Chance (or the gym au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles works in a bank. Derek needs a loan.

"Look," Derek says, trying not to set his teeth. "I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I should probably be talking to the Loans Manager." And not the monkey.

The kid doesn’t look up from where he’s poring over Derek’s business plan. “Shhh,” he says, and carries on reading.

Derek has better things to do with his time than sit across a desk from this power-tripping bank teller who’s playing dress-up with his pin-striped suit and his slicked-back hair. He’s probably given himself a promotion while his boss is at lunch. 

"Okay," the kid says a few minutes later. "I have a couple of questions."

There are always a couple of questions. _What you makes you think Beacon Hills needs another gym? Why should we invest in your idea? Have you lost your freakin’ mind?_

And then the inevitable **no**.

It doesn’t seem to matter that Derek already has most of the money he needs to kick-start this venture. Most is not all.

"Tell me more about this ‘great outdoors’ theme," the kid - who for some reason insists on being called Stiles - says thoughtfully.

That’s a…surprise, and Derek is still pretty sure that he’s wasting his breath here, but it’s nice to tell someone about his baby. So he launches into his spiel about how people dislike being cooped indoors when the weather is fine, and how evening hikes and weekend trails would be a huge part of this project. There’s a whole social aspect just waiting to be tapped into. And a large outdoor area at the back of the building, with shaded areas for classes. Plus a coffee shop, and an events area for business meetings or book clubs or whatever. There’s also a pool - which the other gyms don’t have - and an ideal location, right next door to the pre-school and moms with a couple of free hours during the day. Business packages will be a priority, and Derek hopes to support the community by displaying art from up and comings, and promoting various…

Stiles cuts him off with a held up palm. “Okay,” he nods.

"Okay?" Derek repeats.

"Yes," Stiles says. "Yes. I’m going to take a chance."

Derek doesn’t fully believe it until the money is actually in his business account, and from there things move so quickly that he only knows his bed for about five hours a night over the following six months. And finally, on one bright June morning, All Hale opens for business.

Derek starts to sleep for four hours a night.

 

"Nice."

It takes Derek a couple of seconds to place him. The suit has been replaced by a graphic tee and skinny jeans, and the hair is product free, but the eyes and the mouth are still the same.

"Can I interest you in a tour?" he smiles professionally.

"Sure," Stiles grins back. "I’m specifically interested in the area where hot, sweaty, almost-naked men work out. Especially the hot, sweaty not-naked-enough owners."

Derek rolls his eyes. “Great. It must be ten minutes since I was last sexually harassed.”

Stiles blushes furiously. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I wasn’t trying to harass you. I was trying to…flirt. With you.”

"You’re terrible at it," Derek says, beginning to lead Stiles towards the outdoor compound where a yoga class is just starting.

"Ain’t got no game," Stiles agrees mournfully.

 

Stiles is back at least three times a week, but never to actually work out, or swim, or take part in classes. Instead he badgers Derek into having coffee with him and makes Derek laugh with wacky tales, and mesmerises Derek with his always moving hands.

"You’re going to have to put that boy outta his misery," Erica says one evening when they’re shutting down reception. 

Derek pretends he has no idea what she’s talking about. 

“I’m talking about the way he comes in here just to see you, I’m talking about the way he looks at you like there’s nothing else worth looking at. I’m talking about the way you look at him pretty much the same way. And I’m talking about the inevitability of him asking you out and you turning him down. Because you might go out with him and you might have fun and you might fall in love with him and marry him and have lots of babies. And let’s face it, Derek, it’s not like you are ever going to be that nice to yourself.”

She has a point.

 

Derek is going to find some way of derailing Stiles before it gets to that. He’s thinking that he might mention a fictitious crush he has on Erica, who is safely dating Boyd from Extreme Work-Outs. Anything just to throw Stiles off.

But the next time Stiles comes in, he looks tired and a little shell-shocked, and so Derek doesn’t say anything. Of course that’s when Stiles asks Derek if he can take him to dinner. On a date.

Derek is almost tempted. Stiles is gorgeous and smart and funny. But Derek’s been there, done that, got the house burned down, so he says no.

Stiles flushes and squirms with embarrassment, but he doesn’t look particularly surprised. “No worries,” he shrugs, in a tone that suggests this is not the first time he’s been shot down.

It’s hideously awkward, but Derek would rather have Stiles and the awkward than have the heavy feeling in his chest when Stiles leaves and he’s alone again. 

Naturally.

 

Stiles stops coming to the gym, but Derek doesn’t stop looking out for him.

 

Derek eats well. Prides himself on it. It’s as much a part of his personal life as it is his professional one. But he really wants a fucking burger. A great, big, greasy burger with cheese and mayo. Something that might fill that void in his torso that arrived when Stiles disappeared.

He walks furtively to the counter of Beano’s, the local fast-food joint, ready to ask for a heart-attack to take away, when the guy at the counter drones - “Welcome to Beano’s, home of the Beano Burger. Best burger on the West Coast. How may I help you?”

The graphic tee has been replaced by a yellow and red striped shirt, and the hair is hidden under a windmill shaped hat, but Derek knows it’s Stiles, even before Stiles looks up from lining trays with advertising sheets.

"What…" Stiles gasps, face falling horribly.

"I think that’s my question," Derek says slowly, and Stiles whimpers while closing his eyes. Derek watches him mouth from one to ten, before one eye peeks open.

"Shit," Stiles mutters, looking away.

"What are you doing here?" Derek asks, genuinely puzzled. "You work at the bank…"

"Work _ed_ ,” Stiles corrects. “There was an audit a couple of weeks ago, and a little discrepancy came to light. One where I may have authorised a business loan that I had no author-uh-tay to authorise, and so…” He finishes by waving a hand around as if to say _behold my new kingdom_.

Derek grips the counter to stop himself free-falling. “You mean my…”

"Oh, don’t worry," Stiles says quickly. "There’ll be no problem with your account. Turns out you are a very worthy investment, like I knew you would be. It’s just that I shouldn’t have. Yeah."

"You didn’t show the plan to your boss?" Derek manages.

"I did," Stiles shrugs. "They said no. But they’re idiots. I know a good idea when I see one." He wrinkles his nose at his shirt. "Believe it or not."

“But…why?”

“You had passion and vision and a very sound business plan,” Stiles says, quiet. “All you needed was someone to believe in you.”

Two minutes ago, Derek was starving, but now he just feels really full, like there’s barely even enough room in his chest for air. He wraps a fist in the shirt Stiles is still frowning at and hauls him half over the counter to kiss him frantically, swallowing Stiles’ startled umph, and letting himself taste what he’s wanted since he saw a kid with gelled hair and pin-stripes. He’s going to tell Stiles that, when he can stop kissing him. And he’s going to tell Stiles what Erica said yesterday, about all the customers who have asked for him over the past two weeks, about how sales have dropped a little since Stiles stopped calling in and charming the pants off of potential clients. There’s a job waiting at front desk with Stiles’ name all over it. He can even slick back his hair and wear a suit, if he wants.

"Can I help you," someone nearby says, a mixture of shock and disapproval.

Derek pulls back from Stiles’ mouth and then kisses it again, because it’s wet, and beautiful, and _there_. He doesn’t take his eyes from Stiles’ gawping face when he answers the guy standing beside them.

"Yes, you can. I’ll take this one to go."

He tugs Stiles the rest of the way over the counter and sets him on his feet.

"What are you doing?" Stiles laughs, a little pitchy, but he’s easy for the way Derek is manhandling him.

"Taking a chance," Derek smiles at him, grabbing his hand and pulling the surest thing in his life out the door.


End file.
